Course Correction
by avi17
Summary: Less than a week after the Looking Glass mission, Desmond begins to see visions of Claire's death. Can he save her, and after what happened to Charlie, can she even trust him enough to let him try?  Next chapter up!
1. Prologue

Now I'm not going to give any warnings or pairings for this beforehand, because I don't want to give any hints as to how it will end. I will say that the actual chapters will be longer and much more involved than this bit- the prologue is more for establishing the story than actually telling it.

Enjoy.

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**_Course Correction_**

**_Prologue_**

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The baby was crying.

"Ssh...Aaron, honey, please..." Claire whispered halfheartedly, but she was crying too, silently, heavy sheets of rain pouring all around her. She stood alone only inches from the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking an empty section of beach, balancing her baby son on one hip and staring intently at something- a small object, perhaps- in the palm of her other hand. Her gaze was longing, broken, and her teeth were digging deep into her bottom lip as she struggled to keep herself from sobbing out loud. A tiny trickle of blood slid down her pointed little chin as one of the canines broke the delicate skin, but it was soon washed away by the rain. Shaking her head vehemently, she hoisted Aaron firmly up into her arms and began to walk carefully along the cliff's edge, staying as far away from the line of trees marking the edge of the jungle as she could.

"_Claire!_" A frantic yell echoed over the cliff, through the trees. Alarmed, she whipped her head around, searching for the source of the voice and failing, just for a fraction of a second, to pay attention to her feet.

That one wrong step was all it took. Her foot slid out from under her in the slippery mud created by torrents of rain, and she let out a terrified shriek, lurching violently backwards. She didn't dare throw out a hand to try to steady or catch herself for fear of losing Aaron, and it took mere moments for the mother and child to disappear over the cliff's edge. The baby's wailing grew louder and more frantic as his mother clung to him tighter, and the wind howled through her soaked hair as she fell, and the rain poured harder, and then-

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Desmond jolted awake, sweating and shaking and gasping for breath. Frantically, he looked around in every direction, half-expecting to see a willowy little figure teetering on the edge of a cliff, to feel the mud between his toes and the rain on his face. But no, there was only his shabby makeshift tent in a secluded corner of the beach, and the sun above and the gritty sand beneath him. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal, and he tried to convince himself that what he had just seen was a dream and nothing more. But it wasn't a dream and he knew it- it was a vision, a flash. The first flash he'd ever had without...

Charlie.

It had been less than a week since that awful day when Desmond had paddled the little boat, alone, back to an entire camp that still expected there to be two people in it. Desmond _knew_ despair- he'd lived it for more than three years- and he had seen it in every single castaway's eyes when he gave them the news of their lack of impending rescue and, more importantly, of their friend and comrade's death. And Claire had nearly had a panic attack then, screaming over and over that it couldn't be true, no, Charlie couldn't be dead, she and the baby needed him, and had even run senselessly out into the lapping ocean waves. It had taken Jin and an already crying Hurley a good two or three minutes to drag her back to dry land and restrain her before she had finally given up, going limp and sobbing brokenly into Hurley's shoulder.

They had held a silent vigil for Charlie by the sea that night. There was no way to give their unlikely hero a proper funeral, since no one had the heart to try to go down into the depths and bring his body back. It would have felt too much like disturbing his final peace. No one spoke, but no words were needed. Those who were religious sent him their most heartfelt prayers, and all thanked him silently for his selflessness, for his sacrifice. Even Claire had remained stoic through the service, but those who slept in the tents near hers had heard her crying quietly late into the night.

As for Desmond, he'd really had no idea what to do with himself in the days that followed. The classic case of survivor's guilt was eating away at him, and he found himself reliving Charlie's final moments over and over, coming up with so many ways he could have done more to help him and hadn't. And he was unbearably lonely, lonelier even than he had been in the hatch- Charlie was one of the few people who hadn't written him off as unsalvageably insane, one of the few who would talk to him- _really _talk to him. Charlie was the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend on that island. He would have killed just for the sound of his voice, for just a tap on the shoulder from guitar-calloused fingers- _something_ to reassure himself that Charlie wasn't really gone like Desmond knew he was.

But in reality, it went even deeper than that. Desmond had tried and failed almost every kind of life imaginable, and they had all turned out to be worthless in the end. The hatch was the first place he had ever felt, ever _been_ important, but he had never understood exactly what it was he was doing- he still didn't. But Charlie- _saving_ Charlie- that had been different. It had given him a purpose- a real, meaningful purpose. For that one short month, fate had not been set in stone- he, Desmond the useless failure, could change the course of destiny, perhaps even his own. And of course, when Charlie finally went, he had taken all of that with him.

Desmond slowly got to his feet and pushed aside the cloth that served as the wall of his tent, quickly scanning the camp for pale skin and sunflower-blonde hair. He was almost ashamed at the tiny spark of excitement that flickered to life in the back corner of his mind. This time could be different- he had another chance to save a life, to save _Claire's_ life. Another chance to change fate.

He owed Charlie- and himself- that much.

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**_End Prologue_**

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Like I said...chapters from here on will be in real-time, but that's all I'm going to say. Expect an update fairly soon. knock on wood

I think I abused hyphens.

Feedback is very much appreciated (and it will make me be alot more intent to update faster!)


	2. Chapter 1

An update, written while I was at camp. For me, this is actually fairly quick (particularly seeing as it would've been up about a week ago if I'd had access to a computer). But I'm a couple pages into the next chapter, so hopefully the next update will be even quicker.

In complete honesty, this is probably the strangest thing I've ever written- those who know me personally will know why. And yet strangely enough, I'm rather proud of it.

And in response to those mixed reviews about pairings...you'll just have to wait and see. :3

Enjoy!

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**_Course Correction_**

**_Chapter 1_**

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He found her right where he thought he would; sitting cross-legged, grim and silent, in the meager shade of her tent, next to the roughly-hewn wooden cradle that Locke had made for her. Her thin, grey shirt was half pulled up around her shoulders and she had Aaron clutched tightly against her chest. The baby made soft, muffled gurgling noises as he breastfed and she rocked him, slowly but firmly, back and forth, clinging to his tiny body like a lifeline.

Desmond hesitated; the scene was the iconic image of the Madonna and the Baby Jesus that he had seen in what seemed like a million paintings, but with a few aspects very, very wrong. Her sunny-blonde hair was filthy and tangled and twisted up at the base of her neck, instead of free and beautiful as the Virgin Mary's should have been, and he could still see the tear-tracks that had stained streaks down her pale cheeks. And the ugly pink puncture scars from the medicine injections running down hers and the baby's arms…those marred the scene beyond repair.

Pushing the unease in the pit of his stomach aside, Desmond slowly approached her, making as much noise as he could with his feet to avoid startling her, and in the hopes that he would not have to be the first to speak. However, she only continued gently cradling the baby against her, giving no indication that she knew he was there. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "…Claire?"

She clenched her eyes shut, running her dainty fingers through the baby's sparse wisps of blond hair, and said nothing.

Growing a bit irked at the realization that she was pointedly ignoring him- there was no bloody time for that!- he knelt down right in front of her, close enough that he knew she couldn't pretend he wasn't there. "Claire!" he said, perhaps a little louder than necessary. "Can I have a word?"

Letting out an almost inaudible sigh, Claire gently pulled Aaron away, not bothering to pull her shirt down over her exposed breasts until she had laid him back in his crib and tickled him a little to quiet him down. Desmond found himself absently wondering if this calm lack of embarrassment about her body had stemmed from becoming a mother, or if she had grown detached in her grief. After she had covered herself, she paused a moment to breathe deeply, before finally looking up at him with weary eyes and asking, "What do you want, Desmond?"

All of a sudden, he realized that he had no idea how to tell her what he needed to say, what he had seen. He fumbled for words. "I…I had a dream las' night. An' it was…it was abou' yeh…"

"If you're coming onto me, Desmond, then you can forget it," she said dryly, mirthlessly. She didn't smile.

He wasn't sure whether she had meant it seriously or was just trying to fluster him, perhaps in an attempt to make him leave, but he ploughed on regardless of which was true. "My dream, sistah…I think it was a flash, like I had abou' Ch-"

"_Stop._ Just stop."

He blinked, vaguely aware that he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish, with no sound coming out. He focused again on her face and was genuinely startled at the expression he found there. A livid glare, mixed with sadness, mixed with grief, mixed with hate. Ignoring his obvious shock, she went on, the volume of her voice rising almost by the second.

"I don't even want to _hear_ about your flashes, okay?" Tears were brimming at the corners of her reddened eyes. "I've had_ enough_ of your flashes! Can't you just leave me and my baby _alone_?"

Desmond was outright staring now- it honestly hadn't even begun to occur to him that she could be so angry- even more, so angry at _him_- about what had happened. After all, when she had caught him going after the injured bird out on the rocks and confronted him, he had sat her down and explained everything. Didn't she understand how _hard_ he had tried to save Charlie, how _hard_ he had tried to change the course of destiny itself?

Didn't she understand that he was hurting as much as she was?

"Claire, please…" He struggled to come up with words that she would listen to. His mind wandered back to the evening before this young woman's- and what was left of his own- world had fallen to pieces. An evening with Charlie, talking to Charlie, preparing Charlie and himself for the end, the inevitable. After a bit of coaxing, Charlie had confessed that his only worry- his only true regret- was that Claire would have no one to look after her and the baby when he was gone. And of course, Desmond had immediately sworn that he would. Looking back, he wasn't really sure whether he had made that promise for Claire's sake or for Charlie's- or even for his own. But he had made it, and Charlie had looked up at him and smiled, and said, _'I trust you, brother.'_ Desmond hadn't heard those words in such a long time- never from Kelvin, certainly never in the army…maybe never even from Penny- and he had vowed to himself that he would keep that promise, and not let the trust that Charlie had taken to his grave be misplaced.

He hated himself now for faltering. "_Please_…yeh're in danger…" he almost begged, traces of panic leaking into his voice. "I told him… Let me protect yeh an' the baby…"

"Like you protected _him_, you mean? _I don't trust you!_"

Desmond flinched as though she had slapped him. His entire resolve cracked at the realization that she was right. What had he ever done, really, to deserve her trust? And after all, Charlie was gone, and who did she have to blame but him? Another evening floated, unbidden, to the surface of his mind- an evening mere days before the incident with the birds. Charlie had shown up unannounced at Desmond's tent, fuming, and explained shortly that Claire had again ordered him to get out. When a confused Desmond had asked why, he had received only a snapped _'she was suspicious.'_ It occurred to him that even though Claire had obviously loved, even _depended_ on Charlie, her trust of him had been shaky at best.

He wondered if she trusted anyone now.

People were beginning to gather now- Desmond could feel their suspicious glares boring into him like daggers, and he hated them for it. Hated them for turning him into the villain in everything that had happened. He could read in every one of their faces- at that moment, he was as much an outside as the Other woman that Jack had brought into camp. But as his eyes scanned the myriad of faces, he found hers as well- the Other's face with the nerve to be glaring back at him with the rest of the survivors, as if she belonged. It made him seethe even more.

Of course, Jack played the leader like he always did, and was the first to step forward. "Do you want to tell me what's going on, Desmond?" he asked slowly, cautiously, and there was a hint of concern mingled with the suspicion in his voice. Desmond couldn't even bring himself to answer- he knew that none of that concern was meant for him. For some reason, he found his mind drifting once more to his poorly-preserved faith, and the scene around him transformed into the crucifixion- Charlie was somehow romanticized into Jesus Christ, who had given his life for others, and his cross was the waves of the merciless ocean. And in the eyes of the onlookers, he, Desmond, became Dante's Caiaphas and Judas Iscariot- he who condemned and he who betrayed, all at once.

He wondered why God had taken Charlie and Eko back so soon- they had been, perhaps, among the few on this hellish island who still really believed in Him.

Then he asked himself if _he_ even still believed, and found no answer.

The images of the cliff, the rain, of Claire and the baby falling flashed again through his cluttered mind, and any thoughts of God and His workings were gone.

Only what had been ordained by fate remained.

At the sound of his own name, he snapped back to reality with an unpleasant jolt. It took him a moment of confusion to realize that no one had called him- Jack had a hand on a near-hysterical Claire's shoulder and was attempting to coax her into telling him what was wrong. The doctoral sympathy and gentleness had returned to his voice, with none of the wary coldness that he had shown only moments earlier. Tears were leaking from her red-rimmed eyes again, and Desmond found that he didn't need to hear what she was saying, because they would believe it no matter what it was. He felt slightly sick. If they cared for her so much, then why did they so adamantly refuse to heed his warnings? How the bloody hell was he supposed to make them realize that _he_ was the only one who could save her now? He extended a shaking hand towards the now-sobbing Claire, but found himself only able to choke out, "…Please…"

Jack took a step forward, edging in front of her just enough to make it clear that he wanted Desmond to back off. When he did no such thing, the doctor began in a warning tone, "Desmond, leave her alone…"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Desmond felt his last shred of patience snap, and he burst out furiously, "_Don'_ talk ta me like tha', brothah! Don' yeh _dare_! D'yeh have _any _idea what's goin' on right now?" The suspicious glares morphed into wide-eyed shock as his shouting grew louder, and he felt a strange satisfaction as he yelled again, "D'yeh have any idea at _all_!" He jabbed a finger at Claire, suddenly spiteful. "She knows! She _knows_ an' she won' listen ta me!" He barely knew what he was saying anymore, and as he whipped his head around to face her, her scream as she fell echoed through his ears. Growing frantic, he continued hoarsely, "He loved yeh, y'know! He loved yeh and he asked me ta look afta' yeh, an' _this_ is how yeh repay him? Yeh _know_ why he died, an' yeh _still_ won'-"

This time she really did slap him, ripping her arm free of Jack's grip and swinging her hand with every ounce of strength she still possessed. Before he knew what was happening, Desmond found himself stumbling backwards, more from the shock of being hit than the impact itself. His vision went white, and there was the cliff, just as she slipped and went over the edge. He could hear the baby crying.

After a moment, he realized that the baby really was crying in his cradle, the only sound coming from a crowd of people shocked into utter silence. Slowly bringing trembling fingers up to the throbbing spot on his cheek, Desmond blinked and found pale green eyes staring directly into his own. The tears were gone, though their shining tracks remained, and he was astonished to find that the anger, the hate, the fear had gone as well. All he could see there was an empty cold that nearly made him physically shiver. Ice. The others' faces were still appalled, but he didn't care anymore, because he suddenly understood everything.

She didn't want to know the fate he had foreseen for her, but it wasn't because she hated him. It wasn't because she blamed him for what had happened, not really. It was because she could feel that fate coming for her already, and she had resigned herself to it, just as Charlie had. But while Charlie had agreed to die for the people he loved…Desmond could have almost laughed at the irony of it. Many of his reasons for wanting to save her were selfish and he knew it, but her reasons for refusing him were, in a way, equally selfish.

He wondered if she honestly believed that her own death would reunite her with the man who had died for her.

In time, she could be brought out of her grief. She could have a real life once rescue finally came, learn to be a good, loving mother for the son she never wanted. But until that time came, Desmond realized that he would have to work to keep her alive, because she had lost the will to do so on her own. And it wasn't only because of a promise to a dead friend anymore- his own will to live had become tied to it. He _needed_ to do this, to make up for everything he _couldn't _do.

Her eyes remained cold as the Korean woman gently took her by the arm, whispering words of comfort that Desmond knew were falling on deaf ears, and led her away. He shuddered as he felt the freezing deluge of rain soaking through his clothing, heard the chilling screams of this dying mother and child one more time. Reality faded back in as he let his head sink into his hands, and the crowd slowly dissipated beneath the mockingly clear sky, leaving him standing alone, deterred but not defeated, on the quiet beach.

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**_End Chapter 1_**

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Feedback is very much appreciated, particularly if you want this story to be continued in the near future.

I love not-so-subtle hints.


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